


Accurs’d they were not here

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Confederate AU, Eavesdropping, F/M, Jealousy, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Romance, dance, so to speak, voyeur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Respectability is most easily tarnished by moonlight.





	Accurs’d they were not here

She’d never liked Mrs. von Olnhausen, but she had taken a care that it wasn’t widely known. She practiced her bland expression in front of her looking-glass for what seemed like hours, until someone called for her, and she couldn’t have done without the practice. The wide brim of the out-moded bonnet she was forced to wear could only help at church, when most people were either listening to Mr. Hopkins or giving their best impression of doing so, while wondering about whether the custard had set or whether the cow had colic. She always pinched her cheeks and bit her lips before she went down, because she had standards, despite the War and its privations.

She’d never liked Mrs. von Olnhausen but she positively loathed her the night of the ball. Somehow, the widow managed to make everyone forget her monstrously ugly black dress with the whiteness of her skin, her bright eyes, her tightly laced waist, and the cluster of flowers at the low point of the bodice. Gentlemen and ladies alike offered compliments, though her sash was so long it nearly trailed on the floor and she’d obviously dressed her own hair, given the simplicity of the braids. The tall Confederate captain, dashing in his butternut, squired her about as if she were Varina Davis herself! No one seemed to notice how Mrs. von Olnhausen bit her lip when the young soldiers sang and caroused, how she turned her face away when the party spoke of routing the Yankees, making them turn tail and run home. Perhaps the captain did, he watched her quite steadily until he slipped away while she danced with clumsy Mr. Squivers who’d naturally forgotten to bring a pair of gloves.

She’d never liked the woman and yet, she could not admit to being anything other than shocked when she glimpsed her held close in the captain’s arms through the door one of them had forgotten to shut tightly. They waltzed around the room in a small circle, taking care not to jostle any of the ornaments left on the tables, but still Mrs. von Olnhausen’s wide skirts brushed the feet of the chairs just as it did the captain’s polished boots. His hand was visible against her back, their posture something beyond what was allowed for by the rules of the dance. She could not see the captain’s face but she could see Mary’s, turned up to gaze upon him; she could see an expression in Mary’s eyes that ought not be there, certainly not so undisguised it could be seen across a dim room. She was lit up like a candle, her mouth curved in a tender smile, cheeks flushed; the credit could not be given to the exertions of the dance. It must be her partner, it must mean…

“Alice Henrietta! What do you mean by lurking here in the hallway?” Mrs. Green exclaimed. Alice frowned and saw Belinda beyond her mother, watching her with those dark eyes. How long had her mammy stood there, how long before she’d gone to fetch Alice’s mother? Who was she protecting—and why?

“I couldn’t bear to dance with Mr. Squivers again, mamma! His hands are like a pair of rainbow trout, just wriggling around and so wet—even in a quadrille!”

“Yes, well, that may be, but you mustn’t keep the other gentlemen waiting. You mustn’t let anyone wonder where you’ve gone off to—and whether you’re alone. You’re not married to a brave soldier like Emma—anyone may pass a remark about you and then where will you be?”

Where would she be, if someone thought she had gone off alone with a Confederate officer, to dance in a shadowy room, to have a conversation none would overhear—what might be said, what intelligence conveyed without interruption, supervision? With only the gaze of a dark-eyed man who’d faced death and feared nothing, who could see beauty in the deepest gloom, despite the drabness of ribbons, the loose curls freed by being swung about and caught suddenly. Or by a hand gentle enough to stroke each silken strand, deft enough to slit a man's throat.

“I’m sure you’re right, mamma. I wouldn’t want anyone to speak ill of me,” Alice said, tasting the words. They were sweeter than any apple-cake, than candied angelica, more intoxicating than Mr. Squiver’s fine liquor. She savored them and let herself smile. Who would think anything of a smile?

**Author's Note:**

> It was time for some Alice POV though I hoped to keep you guessing a bit about whether it was Anne Hastings. This party is the definition of "fraught" already and I just tried to add to it.
> 
> Varina Davis was the wife of Jefferson Davis, First Lady of the Confederacy.
> 
> The title is from Henry V.


End file.
